Dear Readers, I am still alive--but not well. That is why I've been posting less frequently.
My illness isn't life-threatening or disabling. But it has drained, seemingly, all of my energy.
As I recounted a few posts ago, I started to feel congested and tired near the end of my Paris trip. My former religious self might've said that I was being punished for having too good a time. Truth is, the only possible connection I can see between my sojourn and my illness is the Munch exhibit I attended with Alec and Michele at the Musee d'Orsay. It was one of the most crowded exhibits I've ever attended: We, and other visitors were literally shoulder-to-shoulder. It was all but impossible to move individually and independently.
(That, by the way, was my only complaint about the exhibit, or any other I attended while in Paris: I thought it was well-presented but I couldn't linger at some of the works, as I often do when I'm interested.)
I came home just in time for a long weekend. (Monday the 16th was Martin Luther King Jr. day.) Surely, that would give me time, aided with copious quantities of chicken soup and orange juice, to recover my energies for the beginning of the semester on Tuesday.
My body--specifically, my respiratory system--didn't get the message. I felt as if I were being submerged even deeper into a sea of phlegm. My routine has included going to classes, answering only the most urgent emails and curling up with Marlee.
I figured--correctly--that whatever I was suffering wasn't COVID or the flu, as I was vaccinated as soon as the jabs became available. Finally, I called my doctor who believed I had a respiratory infection and advised me to go to the nearest City MD center rather than to make a trip to his office.
His hunch was correct. All I can do now is wait this thing out. Then, I hope, I'll be back to my regular habits of cycling--and blogging.
